


Binary

by mataglap



Series: Binary System [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drunken Metaphors, Frottage, M/M, assholes in love, inappropriate use of popsicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15175811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Hanzo is arrogant and McCree is stubborn, which results in the world's strangest game of chicken.





	Binary

When Genji comes back from Japan with his brother in tow, McCree takes one look at the man and immediately recognizes trouble.

Hanzo Shimada looks like a hipster and carries himself like a prince, or maybe like the yakuza boss he used to be. During the introduction he stands stiff and proud, chin raised and lips pressed in a thin line, as if daring anyone to call him out on what everyone is thinking — that Genji might have found inner peace, but he lost his mind in the process — and he's not openly hostile, but he's laconic in a way which is hard to classify as polite. He doesn't say anything apart from a formal greeting addressed at nobody in particular, doesn't try to introduce himself, leaving that part to Genji, and the only sentence longer than three words that leaves his mouth is a formal declaration of his wish to join the recalled Overwatch.

Winston accepts the offer, clearly struggling to match Shimada's level of formality, and that's that. Everyone but Winston and the brothers leaves the room, nominally to go back to their tasks, but much more likely to gather in the kitchen and gossip; McCree stays, because somehow he ended up in charge of security around the Watchpoint, and however convinced Genji is of his brother's intentions, it's his job to make sure the new recruit doesn't plan any surprises.

Genji hovers over Winston's massive shoulder, watching him flip through floorplans and mutter about accommodations. "The room I share with master Zenyatta has two spare beds and a lot of space," he says calmly, proving once again that he lost what little remained of his common sense.

Hanzo, who's been standing stiffly and silently to the side, turns his head and levels his brother with a look so incredulous that McCree has to bite down on his cigar to avoid laughing. It's the first readable expression he's seen on Hanzo's face since the brothers' arrival in the morning. Hell, it's the first sign that he's is actually human.

"No," Hanzo says, clipped and commanding. "I prefer to rest alone. I don't require a room if there's a shortage. A warehouse or a storage unit will do."

Winston starts stumbling through assurances that they have plenty of space and there won't be a need for such drastic measures, and this time McCree can't help but chuckle at the look on Genji's face: even without the obvious resemblance of their features — same eyes, same eyebrows — these identical incredulous expressions would be enough to identify them as brothers.

Hanzo turns to give him a sharp glare. McCree flicks the brim of his hat in a lazy salute, unfazed; he's spent most of his life pissing off powerful and dangerous people, one could say he's made it into a hobby, and a washed out yakuza can't hold a candle to an angry Gabriel Reyes. Hanzo isn't deterred, though. He folds his arms, raises his chin haughtily just like before, and gives McCree a very thorough once over.

McCree blinks, momentarily thrown off by how Hanzo doesn't even try to disguise it — it doesn't match the tentative psych profile he's started constructing in the back of his mind — but he collects himself quickly, and by the time Hanzo finishes the examination and looks back up, he's ready to respond with his best roguish smile and a wink.

Hanzo merely raises one dark eyebrow and looks away. The left corner of his mouth twitches up a fraction of an inch.

An unexpected thread of excitement curls through McCree's stomach: oh, so _that's_ how it's gonna be.

* * *

Hanzo continues to act and speak like someone used to immediate and absolute obedience. It grates on McCree's nerves something fierce, but he has to admit, privately and with great reluctance, that Hanzo _does_ have something of an air of authority. It feels instinctive and thoughtless, like he's always had everyone scrambling to fulfill his every whim. Maybe he has. Maybe he's so used to getting what he wants that it doesn't even occur to him to ask instead of barking orders, goddamned spoiled yakuza princeling that he is.

Well, joke's on him, because McCree's always had a problem with authority.

It takes McCree about a week to admit to himself that he finds Genji's murderous and annoying brother incredibly hot, and another two to come to terms with the fact. He's not sure whether the attraction being clearly mutual makes it better or worse. Granted, Hanzo doesn't actually _do_ anything, doesn't flirt, doesn't even talk to him outside meetings and missions, but he keeps giving McCree those lingering, completely unabashed looks that border on outright ogling, and he doesn't even bat an eyelid whenever he's caught staring — he just breaks the brief eye contact by looking away, expressionless, as if he wasn't just burning holes in the back of McCree's head. Or ass.

McCree's not a humble man, he can't say he doesn't enjoy the attention, but something about an interest this visible combined with zero followup feels increasingly off. He can't quite put a finger on it, until one evening they're changing out of combat gear in the locker room at the makeshift armory and he catches Hanzo checking him out _again_ , and this time when Hanzo looks away he does so with a smirk, and it finally clicks.

The fucker is _waiting_. He's dangling bait and waiting for McCree to cave in and come to him first.

McCree freezes with the shirt halfway down his torso, torn between conflicting urges to punch Hanzo in the face and to pin him against a wall somewhere in a dark corner. He briefly considers doing both, abandons the idea after a couple deep breaths, gets dressed instead and walks out without acknowledging Hanzo's presence. Up on the roof of the observatory, in his favorite thinking spot, he leans against the railing, watches the sunset, smokes and comes up with a plan.

* * *

McCree takes to lingering in the shared showers and using towels that only barely wrap around his waist. He takes full advantage of the summer weather and spends more time shirtless than everyone else combined, and when he does have a shirt on, he makes sure at least three buttons are open. He wears the tightest pair of jeans he can manage without the risk of chafing his junk, and when Hanzo is around, he sits in a way that makes the fact he goes commando and tucks left very clear to anyone who cares to look.

He might have accumulated more than a few scars, but life on the run has been keeping him in shape, so overall he's not hard on the eyes, if he does say so himself, and that helps. Hanzo is obviously into the rugged cowboy persona he's cultivated over the years, so he milks it for all its worth, spiced up with a few tricks he picked up in Blackwatch, from agents who juggled identities for a living. He doesn't flirt openly, but he drops innuendos whenever there's an opportunity — completely accidentally, of course — and in general, he does his level best to make Hanzo understand just how much he's missing.

It's a challenge, too — _if you want it, come get it_ — and he doesn't have to wait long for results, because Hanzo may be snotty and arrogant but he's not stupid, and he catches on to what McCree's doing faster than McCree did on to him.

Mr. Too-Good-For-You doesn't let himself get caught off guard easily, but McCree still manages to make him blush at least twice, and lose the train of thought a couple times more. He's rewarded with a few hot glares which he treasures with the strangest mix of arousal and spite, imagining he can see the frustration in the narrowed grey eyes.

About a week later, Hanzo drops an innuendo of his own while they're chatting on the comms during the downtime on an op. It's subtle but it's there, delivered in a perfectly neutral tone except for maybe the slightest shade of smugness that, honestly, might just be McCree's overactive imagination. It takes McCree a few seconds to understand and process what he just heard, and when he does, the unexpected thrill is strong enough to leave him inconveniently half-hard in the middle of a mission.

From there, things escalate quickly.

Hanzo gives as good as he gets, and it's weird to see McCree's own strategy turned against him, but what's even worse is that it _works_. Turns out that Hanzo is hot, but when he actually puts his mind to it he's downright _gorgeous_ , and McCree is suddenly subjected to more sights of tight clothing and sweaty muscle than his late night imagination knows what to do with. Now when Hanzo looks at him, he does so completely openly and with a smirk, the kind of a smirk that makes McCree's blood boil and makes him want to wipe it off Hanzo's face, preferably with his dick.

It's starting to feel like the world's weirdest game of chicken. McCree knows it has to end one way or another, and with his luck, it's likely to spectacularly blow up in his face, but the knowledge doesn't stop him. He's too invested now. He's a gambler at heart, has been pushing his luck one way or another since he was fourteen, and even just the anticipation of Hanzo's next move makes it all worthwhile, nevermind the chance of a big payout. He tries not to imagine that payout and inevitably fails every time, keyed up like a horny teenager, jerking off in the shower to a hundred different visions of Hanzo giving up, head full of sculpted muscles, smug smile, raspy voice and piercing eyes. 

And then, inevitably, comes a day when it's suddenly not so fun anymore, a day when he wishes Hanzo wasn't an arrogant prick and he himself wasn't a stubborn asshole, and that's when he seeks escape in a bottle of bourbon in his favorite spot up on the roof.

He stays there until it's completely dark, drunk and warm and finally relaxed, stretched out on his back, watching the clear sky glitter with stars. It reminds him of the lectures Winston gave to volunteer audience before he got his PhD, about stars and planets and black holes and all things space related; McCree got voluntold to attend the first lecture along with Tracer and Fareeha, and none of them missed one ever since.

He wonders if Winston would be up for another lecture, now that he's turned from a goofy teenager into a slightly less goofy, but responsible leader.

He wonders if Hanzo's ever watched the stars, or if it's all been crime and grime for him, if he was too busy playing on the basest instincts of humanity to look up.

He wonders what would happen if he just went and knocked on Hanzo's door down the hall. Hanzo would probably open the door and smirk, rub his victory in a bit, say 'took you long enough', make sure McCree knew he was the one who caved in first — and then they'd land in a bed and stay there for a week.

It would be great, and not only because of the sex. It's been over two months, and by now, McCree knows that apart from being hot, arrogant and manipulative, Hanzo is also scarily competent and wickedly smart. He's got this dry, slightly morbid sense of humor that reminds McCree of the golden days of Blackwatch, and he's real good company when he's not trying to order everyone around. They're a match, the yakuza and the gangster, and McCree's got a gut feeling they could go far together if they tried.

Of course, Hanzo could also tell him to get lost and shut the door in his face. But McCree likes to think he's finally gotten decent at judging people, and he's sure that the attraction on Hanzo's part is genuine, that he, too, feels the pull whenever they're close to each other.

Like gravity. Like those double stars Winston talked about. Binary systems, two stars locked together by their mutual gravitational pull. Destabilize the orbits, and the stars will eventually collide and merge. If he shelves his pride for just a moment —

But then he remembers there's another option, that one of the stars can devour the other, slowly stealing its mass, layer by layer — and nope. He won't be at the beck and call of a goddamn yakuza. If Hanzo wants this, he's gonna have to fucking ask.

 _You're an idiot and a sap_ , he tells himself, taking another swig of bourbon and purging dumb romantic metaphors out of his head.

* * *

McCree wins the game on a sunny day in Barcelona, with the oldest trick in the book.

The job only really needs one person, but one of the ground rules they laid down is no solo ops, and now that Overwatch has a second ninja, Genji's all too happy to weasel out of missions in favor of meditating, or birdwatching, or whatever they get up to with that omnic _master_ of his. McCree wholeheartedly approves of the new rule: working alone for way too long teaches a man to appreciate company, and even more so when said company is someone he's been playing sex chicken with for the better part of three months.

The mission is a complete bust, but the weather is amazing, the company is delightfully snarky and _fantastically_ good looking in casual summerwear, and McCree's happy to treat this as a little well-deserved vacation. Feeling playful, he buys a popsicle and practically fellates it on the way back to the hotel; it's a ridiculous move straight out of a shitty comedy and he has a hard time stopping himself from laughing, but he doesn't even have to glance at Hanzo to know that it's working.

He doesn't realize just how well it's worked until he walks into their shared hotel room, tosses the hat onto the bed and starts twisting his wrist in an attempt to lick off the sticky sweetness where the popsicle dripped all over his hand, and Hanzo stalks in behind him, pushes the door closed, catches him by the wrist and forcibly jerks his hand away from his mouth.

McCree emits an incoherent sound of outrage, completely surprised, and opens his mouth to ask _what the hell_ , but Hanzo just keeps pulling at his hand, implacable, fingers clenched like vise around the wrist, until it's right in front of Hanzo's face.

McCree freezes in shocked disbelief at the first wet, soft touch.

Hanzo licks the red smear off the base of his thumb, then off the side of his index finger, careful and thorough. He tugs McCree's slackened palm closer, examines the results of his work, drags his tongue across the knuckles, dips into the space between index and middle finger, then sucks briefly on the sticky skin between the index finger and the thumb.

McCree finally remembers that he needs to breathe, and discovers that his lungs are no longer cooperating.

At the sound of his ragged inhale, Hanzo stops moving and they stand there, frozen, staring at each other for what feels like an eternity. Hanzo's face is calmly neutral, but his pupils are visibly dilated. McCree's palm feels cool and tingly in places where the moisture is evaporating quickly. His dick pulses angrily in his pants. His mind is completely blank.

Hanzo slowly lets go of his wrist, fingers uncurling and pulling away. McCree stands still for a moment, hand still outstretched, before he remembers how to unlock the muscles and let it fall down to his side.

They move at the same time, lightning fast, and freeze again for a second when they're an inch apart — Hanzo's hands twisted in McCree's t-shirt, McCree gripping Hanzo's bare shoulders — but by then the gravitational pull is impossible to escape, and the shock of lust that jolts through McCree when their mouths finally collide is so strong that he staggers on suddenly wobbly legs. Hanzo pushes him backwards, groaning or growling, he's not sure, and all breath explodes out of him in a rush when his back hits the wall; he gasps for air and responds to the brutal push of Hanzo's tongue with his own, wraps both palms around the shaved base of Hanzo's skull and tilts his head so their mouths slot together better, deeper, and kisses him until the hands restlessly roaming his body return to his chest again.

Hanzo hauls him away from the wall by the front of his t-shirt, without breaking the kiss. McCree follows blindly, brain on autopilot, hands on Hanzo's waist, under his tank top, on the skin, and this time it's Hanzo who stumbles on the edge of the carpet. They're lucky, there's a wardrobe in their path, and Hanzo's back hits the smooth wood so hard the entire thing creaks; the sound he makes into McCree's mouth is more pornographic than anything McCree's heard in his entire life, and his thigh pushes between Hanzo's completely of its own volition.

Hanzo is hard. He's fully hard, straining through the thin material of his pants, and that short-circuits McCree's brain to the point where he can't form coherent words anymore, other than 'bed' and 'now'. He tries to break away from Hanzo's mouth for a second to utter these two very important words, but Hanzo makes a noise of furious protest and chases his lips, holding the back of his neck in a steely grip, so he wraps both arms around him instead and pulls. Hanzo's a solid wall of densely packed muscle way too heavy to lift from this angle, but as long as they're still kissing he allows McCree to maneuver them away from the vertical surface and steer them in the general direction of the horizontal, which happens to be McCree's bed, closer to the entrance, and they're about halfway there when Hanzo suddenly opens his eyes and the world spins.

McCree lands on something soft with a grunt. It's an armchair, one of the two huge armchairs in front of the holoset — and now he has a lapful of ninja. There are no words to describe how Hanzo looks like, dilated pupils and red lips, panting mouth and a flush across those aristocratic cheekbones. McCree kind of wants to reach up and touch one, but his hands refuse to budge from where they're glued to Hanzo's hips, and Hanzo watches McCree with breathtaking intensity for a couple more seconds before leaning in for another kiss.

It starts slower this time, indulgence seeping into the desperation, but then Hanzo pushes closer and brings their hips flush together, and McCree groans and bites Hanzo's lip because _god_ , the way that feels —

His brain is too occupied with the kissing to bother with trivial things like muscle coordination, so it takes him forever to clumsily ruck Hanzo's tank top up to his armpits, but at least Hanzo finally gets the hint, leans back a bit and pulls it off, and then divests McCree of his own t-shirt in three sharp tugs.

"Gorgeous," McCree breathes. His voice sounds weird in his ears and his tongue feels all wrong, so he applies it to a better use, bowing to mouth at the edge of a tattooed pectoral. When he gets to the nipple Hanzo shivers, actually _shivers_ all over and makes another incredibly pornographic sound, and pulls McCree's head away by the hair, not sharply but insistently enough that he can't fight it. He's never been into hair pulling, but something about it goes straight to his dick, making him hiss, and any complaints he might have had about the treatment are immediately cancelled because Hanzo forces him to lean back into the armchair and somehow crawls _even closer_ , and McCree's not even done seeing stars after what that did to his dick when Hanzo rolls his hips, graceful and filthy, and all he can do is gasp.

He reaches out, pulls Hanzo close and kisses him, suddenly desperate again. Hanzo's rhythm falters briefly, but he supports himself with an arm against the back of the chair, tangles the other hand in McCree's hair and returns the kiss, deep and messy and perfect. McCree can't match the sinuous roll of Hanzo's hips, he's got no leverage in this position, but holding on isn't enough, kissing isn't enough, so he touches: up Hanzo's muscular back and down his sides, along the flexing thighs, and then he discovers he can grab Hanzo's incredible ass and grind up against him and that works, that makes Hanzo moan into his mouth and causes his rhythm to stutter briefly before returning a little faster, a little harder, perfect.

He's going to come in his pants, they're both going to, here in his chair, but he doesn't give a damn, he's too occupied with being torn between desperately not wanting this to end yet and needing to come _right now_. Hanzo's kisses grow sloppier and he starts gasping quietly on each breath, he must be close, and god, so is McCree, he can feel the orgasm coiling low in his stomach, so close he can taste it — he's not going to last another twenty seconds, so he breaks off the kiss and puts two fingers in his mouth, briefly looks into Hanzo's slightly unfocused eyes and reaches behind him, slips past the waistband of his shorts, past the underwear, presses a spit-slick finger against his hole, pushes in.

Hanzo jerks violently and his movements lose all the graceful fluidity, turn into barely coordinated thrusts, one, two, three — McCree kisses him again just in time to feel his mouth go slack, and then the muscle around McCree's fingers contracts, Hanzo tenses in his arms and shudders, groaning into his mouth, hips still jerking against McCree's in sharp thrusts, and that is enough, McCree throws his head back and comes hard, whining through gritted teeth, clutching Hanzo like a lifeline, grinding up into him until his muscles give out.

* * *

"You're infuriating," Hanzo says into his neck some time later, voice almost even.

McCree's brain still feels kind of scrambled, and he doesn't know if it's the incredible orgasm or the high of an unexpected victory, or maybe just the giddiness of finally having his arms around the hottest man who's ever walked the Earth, but he can't help it: he starts laughing.

Hanzo pulls away a bit, still flushed and gorgeous, and gives him a flat look. "That wasn't a joke."

"I can't believe you fell for the popsicle maneuver," McCree manages. "Of all the shit I pulled off, why the goddamn popsicle?"

Hanzo scoffs dismissively. "The popsicle had nothing to do with it."

"Really." McCree raises his eyebrows and meaningfully drags a thumb across Hanzo's lower lip.

Hanzo snorts and swats his hand away. "I planned to act from the moment we came here, I was only waiting for the end of the mission. The popsicle was merely…" — his mouth twitches — "…inspirational."

"Did you now."

"I did. It became obvious you'd never make a move on your own." Hanzo somehow pulls off the haughty look, like he didn't just come in his pants while grinding in McCree's lap, with McCree's fingers up his ass. The man has a talent.

"Uh-huh." McCree grins at him, suddenly overwhelmingly fond. "Bet you thought you'd just give me a 'come hither' look and I'd come runnin'."

Hanzo's glare lacks the intensity to be convincing and he knows it, so he abandons the attempt and shifts, makes a face, shifts again and flops bonelessly against McCree's chest.

"Untrue," he mumbles.

"Sure you did. All that teasin', all those looks —"

"I wasn't teasing until you started," comes a grumble from the vicinity of his collarbone. " _You_ were the one acting like you were warming up for a porno vid."

McCree loses the brief fight with the temptation to stroke down Hanzo's back. "First of all, thank you very much, I appreciate it," he says, marveling at the smoothness of the skin under his fingers, at being finally able to touch. "Secondly, do I have to list all the times I caught you checking out my ass?"

Hanzo's shoulders lift and fall under his hand. "You're attractive. I'm a human, not a robot, despite what you seem to think."

McCree shakes off the lingering remains of post-coital haze and frowns. "Hold on a sec. If that's all, if teasin' wasn't the plan, then why didn't you do something apart from all the staring?"

Hanzo stays quiet for a while, then sighs, long-suffering, and pushes himself back into a more vertical position.

"At first, I didn't expect you to be interested in a murderer," he says flatly. "And then, when it became clear you were trying to provoke me for some reason…"

There's that smirk again, but somehow, from this angle, it doesn't look all that infuriating.

"…I assumed you had some sort of an ulterior motive. It wasn't until I got to know you better that I reevaluated the situation. You… don't seem the type to plan an elaborate intrigue just to stab me in the back." The smirk grows wider. "You're more of a high noon standoff kind of man."

"Aw shucks," McCree says automatically, thinking. "So what you're saying is, we could've done this two months ago."

"Maybe." Hanzo carefully slips off his lap and straightens; McCree can't help but admire that even half-naked, mussed and sporting a giant wet patch in front of his shorts, he still somehow manages to look like a prince. "But would it have been as good? Let's shower and order laundry, and call Winston and postpone our return for another two days. I've decided that Barcelona is to my liking."

McCree squints up at him. "Just so you know, you still ain't the boss of me."

"You seemed to do what I wanted willingly enough," Hanzo replies with an unbearably smug smile, and he disappears in the bathroom before McCree gathers his wits enough to make a retort.

McCree chews his lip, huffs out a laugh, shakes his head and follows Hanzo to the bathroom, already plotting a terrible revenge.

  



End file.
